


“Come Go With Me”

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Paul thinks back on that day 49 years ago that changed his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Come Go With Me”

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

**Come Go With Me**

_Come, come, come, come_  
Come and go with me  
To the penitentiary…

It was 49 years ago today.

Has it really been that fucking long?

I mean, on some level I know that many years have already passed. For fuck’s sake, I just celebrated my 64th birthday a few weeks ago, and man. If I had known then what I know now, I never would’ve written a song entitled, “When I’m 64.” I couldn’t even open a bloody newspaper without seeing another imbecilic use of my lyrics in a failed attempt to be witty.

But I digress.

It’s been 49 years since I met John, and I just know that the media will make a big deal out of it. And the fans, those dear, sweet, slightly nutty people, will herald today as an international holiday. I think that I can honestly say that today may mean more to some people than the resurrection of Jesus fuckin’ Christ!

See? John wasn’t the only one who could be both witty and blasphemous with the same breath.

Anyway, I’m just happy that this isn’t the year 2007. Fucking hell, the 50th anniversary of our meeting will definitely get more attention than it deserves. I wonder what John would think about all this fuss if he were still alive today.

49 years. Nearly 50 years.

Really? Are you sure? It can’t have been that bloody long!

For me, it’s as if no time has passed at all.

I can still fell the hot sun beating down on the top of my head, my perfectly constructed DA wilting slightly from the heat as beads of sweat dripped down the side of my face. I had just cycled up to the old field behind St. Peter’s Church in Woolton for their yearly garden fete with an old schoolmate, Ivan Vaughn. There I was, cutting a mean figure with my greased back hair and the tightest pair of drainies that I could possibly squeeze myself into. At the time, I wasn’t all that keen on meeting the friend whom Ivan gushed about constantly. However, the enticement of lovely girls sure had my interest piqued, so, I tagged along. John was just another random bloke, and was not my top priority.

But then I saw him onstage, and everything else flew out of my head.

He just seemed, well, cool, for lack of a better term. Even at 16, he exuded this confidence, this charisma, that had everyone in that field eating out of the palm if his hand. Me included. There he was up there onstage, sideboards grown out to perfection, that colourful-checkered shirt already the envy of the teenaged boys in the audience. He hugged his guitar close in an early prototype of that defiant stance that would become renowned the world over in a few years time. He didn’t have his glasses on, of course, and so his slightly squinty gaze made it seem as though he was sizing his audience up. Well, maybe he was, or maybe he just couldn’t see a thing in front of him.

John tried to sing the Del Vikings’ “Come Go With Me,” but he kept fucking up the lyrics, in addition to playing banjo chords instead of proper guitar ones. His habit of pulling in bits and pieces of lyrics from other songs was pure genius though, and I remember being equal parts amused and impressed by his creating a brand new song on the spot. Not that the audience even noticed or cared. They were just entranced by the performance.

Well, at least I know that  **I**  was.

We officially met after the Quarrymen’s set, Ivan basically dragging me backstage to meet the mighty John Lennon. Needless to say, I was scared shitless.

At first I did not know what to do. Here I was, a chubby little 15-year-old kid in the midst of a group of slightly older boys. Boys who played in a band! One can just imagine my jealousy. So, I did the only thing that I could think of to make an impression.

I played.

Like the little peacock that I was, I strutted through Eddie Cochran’s “Twenty Flight Rock” and Gene Vincent’s “Be-Bop-A-Lula.” They were impressed that I knew all the chords and all the original lyrics to the songs, the product of listening to each record a number of times and painstakingly copying the words down. As I played, John moved behind me, his nearsighted gaze fixed on my fingers as they formed the chords. I was a bit put off by this drunken teen breathing down my neck, but then I looked up and our gazes locked for a split second. It was then that I saw something in his eyes that floored me.

I saw myself.

Reflected in his eyes were the same hunger for fame and fortune and the same love for music that would eventually bind us together. I also saw a touch of the same loneliness and desperation to feel wanted and needed.

That day I found my soul mate.

However, I didn’t quite grasp what that meant at the time. All I knew was that I had found someone that I wanted to, that I  **needed**  to, know better. I had found a person who was to be my equal in every imaginable way. He became my best mate and songwriting partner. And for a long time, he was also the love of my life. Now, if I were being completely honest with myself, I would say that he still is, but then again, when have I ever been totally truthful when it comes to my history with John?

You know, meeting John was like finding the other half of myself that had been missing for so long. And through the course of our years together, that selfsame sentiment was reinforced again and again.

We went through and experienced so much together, from the early days of sagging off from school and writing our first songs to getting drunk and stumbling through the dark streets of Liverpool together. We hitchhiked across England, and later Europe, too. Well, we actually only made it as far as France, but that was good enough. We even shared months of debauchery in Hamburg while staying in the dodgiest of conditions. And we paid our dues by toiling away at the small Liverpool clubs and ballrooms.

When we hit it big, we were each other’s touchstone, and along with George and Ringo, we rode the highs of being world famous, and subsequently, rode the lows as disillusionment set in. Traveling the world, meeting our idols, penning fucking fantastic songs in cramped hotel rooms, and recording our music. Singing at the same microphone in front of an audience of thousands, meeting each other’s eye on stage to exchange a quick smile and a laugh.

Then there are those undocumented times we spent together. A kiss shared in the back of a van or curled up together in a small hotel bed, his head in my lap as a guitar rested on his raised knees as we created our next masterpiece. Quick fucks before show time or the long nights together at my house after a grueling recording session. Countless memories come to mind, but those are ones that I no longer have the strength to relive.

However, meeting John also resulted in years upon years of pain, betrayal, and loss of love. The years following the break-up were some of the hardest of my life. And in the light of what eventually happened to John, all those years of animosity continue to cause me pain, albeit one tinged with a healthy dose of regret.

Now, would I have traded all those years of happiness to erase the pain that our meeting ultimately caused?

No fucking way.

I think that in all honesty meeting John was the best thing that ever happened to me. I have no doubt that where I am now is due in large part to him.

I love you, Johnny, and I always will.

So, here’s to you, John, love. Here’s to a fucking amazing partnership, friendship, relationship, and… Well, you get the picture.

49 years ago today…

Bloody hell.

 


End file.
